Delusion in Death

  “We made an arrest. Wait. There’s going to be a statement and a media conference within the hour. I’m giving you a heads up on it. The data you dug up for me helped.”

  “Give me a name, give me the official charges.”

  “I’m not going to do that, Nadine. You know I can’t. What you can do is get on air, do your breaking news thing. According to a source within the NYPSD, police have arrested and charged a suspect in the mass murders committed at On the Rocks and Café West. An official statement is imminent. Details to follow or whatever.”

  “You’re going to start writing my copy now?”

  “It’s the best I can do for you. Don’t ask me for the one-on-one right now. I’ll just say no because I’m fucking tired; I want to tie this up and go home. Ask me later.”

  “Was he acting alone? Give me that?”

  “At this time, we have no reason to believe otherwise. He confessed. That’s big, Nadine. We apprehended, arrested, and charged an individual, and said individual confessed to perpetrating the incidents that led to the deaths of a hundred and twenty-seven people. You’re going to want to postpone that meeting, get this out, and get your camera-ready ass to Central.”

  “You can bet your mass-murderer-catching ass I will. Talk later.”

  “A lot later,” Eve added when the screen went blank.

  She hadn’t lied about being tired, she thought. Now that it was done, every ounce of fatigue she’d shoved back since walking into On the Rocks wanted to push through and drop her like a stone.

  It just had to wait, she decided. She wanted to write up the arrest report personally. And first, she wanted a look at the journals and papers the search team had secured and logged in.

  She unsealed the box, initialed it, then sat to study the memorabilia of madness.

  The religious rantings in the journal simply annoyed her. The way those thirsty for power, glory or the satisfaction of brow-beating others into their particular beliefs used God as a weapon of intimidation and fear perplexed her.

  Not that they’d do it, but that anybody would listen.

  If God actually took the time to go around smiting anyone, she’d like to see him start with the self-righteous pricks who inflated their own egos in his name.

  But she supposed that was why God made cops.

  Menzini had filled pages in tiny, crablike handwriting, pontificating about the chosen, detailing the ritual rapes of young girls, and calling them initiations or cleansings.

  He rambled about his God-given mission to purge the unclean, sinners, the unworthy, his holy mission to prepare the way for the end of days. And his plans to repopulate the earth with the righteous after the purge.

  He detailed his experiments, his frustrations with his lack of success. One lack of success had resulted in an explosion that had killed one assistant and blinded another.

  That, too, was apparently God’s fault—or his will, anyway. And a test directed at Menzini, to help forge his determination.

  “Yeah, it’s all about you, asshole.”

  She glanced up when Peabody stepped in.

  “I just got to the part where Menzini’s praising God for showing him the way to create the substance. He tested it on some prisoners, which included a sixteen-year-old boy. He dubbed the substance God’s Wrath, and was damn proud of it.”

  “Sounds like Callaway came by it naturally. Jesus.” Horror covered Peabody’s face as it reddened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t bother me. He has this in him, but we’ve all got something. Even some daisy-sniffing Free-Ager like you has to have a rotted branch on the family tree somewhere. It’s what we do with it, about it, despite it.”

  “Yeah.” Peabody blew out a breath. “I don’t sniff daisies. They don’t really smell. I like peonies, if you’re taking notes on flowers to send me for a reward.”

  “Sure, I’ll mark that right down on my shopping list.”

  “You don’t have a shopping list.”

  “Exactly. Did Callaway tap a lawyer?”

  “Not yet. He clammed up, like total lockdown. He gave me a bad feeling, so I put him in solitary, and on suicide watch.”

  “Good. We want him safe and secure. Whitney, or likely Tibble will be making an official statement. We’re expected to do the media conference deal.”

  “I don’t mind. It’ll be good to let people know it’s okay, we did the job. McNab’s working on decrypting Callaway’s electronics. I’m going to wait for him before knocking off anyway. The search team’s back,” she added. “There’s talk about going out for some brew.”

  “I’m going to skip it. I just want to … enjoy an evening at home.”

  “If you change your mind, they’re hitting the Blue Line. Cops might as well celebrate a big win at a cop bar. Do you want me to do the five’s?”

  Tempting … but no. “I’m going to start on it now. Go ahead and get the records for Reo, and a copy of the log of everything taken from Callaway’s apartment. We’re going to want to send somebody in—with correct authorization—to confiscate his office electronics, toss his office.”

  “I can tell Reo to take care of that.”

  “That works. For now, get a uniform to get over there, seal it. Once the news hits, some big nose is bound to go in there and poke around.”

  “I’m all over it. You know, it feels good, Dallas, but …” With a sad little shrug, Peabody looked down at the papers on Eve’s desk.

  “You wished it felt better. I’m betting there’s a hit list on his comp, where he planned to target, who he’d earmarked to take out. Once you read that, think about all those people who can just go on living their lives, it will feel better.”

  “Yeah. You know, thinking about that, it already does.”

  “Then get out of here so I can work.”

  She slogged her way through the arrest report, copied, filed, added it to her book. She considered the other journals. Not exactly light reading, she thought, but she wanted to know, to see.

  She rose, intended to give herself a lift with another hit of coffee, and turned back to her signaling ’link.

  “You’re to report to the main media room, Lieutenant, along with Detective Peabody and any other officer you deem appropriate.”

  “On my way.”

  Coffee later, she promised herself. Better a nice cool glass of wine, or two. And that so much sex.

  Then sleep. Lots and lots of sleep.

  She stood, scanned the bullpen. “Good work, all around. That includes Detectives Carmichael and Sanchez, and the other officers who took on the load so we could bag this fucker. Anyone who wants or needs some personal time or leave … Get real. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  She appreciated the moans, the muttered curses. “Commander Whitney’s called for a media conference.” She appreciated the mild panic, the hunched shoulders as perfectly sane cops slid down in their chairs as if it would make them invisible.

  “Peabody and I will take that as I have other assignments for the rest of you. When you’ve completed your current paperwork or at end of shift—whichever comes first—get the hell out of here and go have a beer.”

  Baxter slapped his hands together. “That’s what I’m talking about! The Blue Line, Dallas. Bring Roarke.”

  “So he can pick up the tab? I don’t think so. I’m going home to the quiet.” She caught Reineke’s eye roll to the ceiling.

  “Problem, Reineke?”

  “What?” He blinked at her, then averted his eyes. “No, sir. No problem here.”

  “Good. Peabody, with me.”

  As she expected, the media prep room buzzed. Tibble, Whitney, Mira, Teasdale, and the ever-sharply dressed Kyung.

  Tibble glanced up from his notes, pocketed them before crossing to her to extend a hand. “Congratulations, Lieutenant, Detective. Solid work.”

  “We had a solid team.”

  “A show of all the officers who participated in the in
vestigation would make a good visual,” Kyung commented.

  “They need a break.”

  “Of course. For myself, I know I’ll sleep easier tonight knowing Lewis Callaway is behind bars.”

  “I need a little more than that. Sir,” Eve said to Tibble. “You know Director Hurtz. Agent Teasdale says he’s an honorable man. There’s a formula capable of killing masses of people. As Menzini has been in custody until his recent death, I have to believe that formula exists, and is buried somewhere deep in HSO’s files.”

  “I’ve never seen nor heard of this substance,” Teasdale insisted, “until this case.”

  “I believe you,” Eve told her. “That doesn’t mean it’s not sealed up somewhere. There’s also a copy in a journal secured in my office. Our chief lab tech is working on an antidote, and he’ll probably come up with one—whether or not HSO already has. We need an agreement, Agent Teasdale, between your honorable man and mine. I’m not naive enough to believe your people will destroy all trace of said formula, but there has to be an agreement said formula will remain sealed and buried.”

  “You’ll have it.” Tibble looked from Eve to Teasdale and back again. “My word.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She believed he’d keep his word. As for Hurtz, she wanted to believe it. But … politics and positions changed. She’d have Roarke keep an eye on things on his unregistered equipment—and she had an ace reporter in the back pocket, should the time come to do that shouting from the rooftops.

  “We’ll all sleep better now.” She looked back at Kyung.

  “I’m told you have Callaway’s parents,” he said.

  “I’ve had them transported to a safe house for tonight. Commander, I’d like to have them taken back to Arkansas in the morning, quick and quiet, and arrange for the locals to provide some protection until we see how that wind blows.”

  “HSO will take care of that,” Teasdale told her.

  “They’ll need to issue a statement,” Kyung considered. “I could help them with that if they’re willing.”

  “That would be good. They’re decent people. It’s going to be hard enough for them. Peabody, pave that road when we’re done here.”

  “We’d intended to wait for the mayor.” Kyung smiled. “But he’s been held up as the news of the arrest leaked.”

  “Did it?”

  His smile widened. “Channel Seventy-five broke the story some thirty minutes ago. They’re short on details, but it was enough to have reporters swarming the mayor’s office. He’ll link up with us from there. Now then, Chief Tibble will make a brief statement, followed by Commander Whitney. You and your investigative team will be acknowledged, as will Agent Teasdale and the HSO. Ah, APA Reo.”

  “Sorry, I was delayed.” She hurried in, fluffing back her cloud of blond hair. “The news broke as my boss was leaving court. He’s dealing with reporters there. I’ll represent the prosecutor’s office here.”

  “Perfect.” Kyung angled his head, gave them all a glowing smile. “Five strong, beautiful women—all playing a part in securing the safety of the city. It’s an excellent visual. Shall we go in?”

  The room was packed, but she’d expected that, too. Cameras whirled and clicked, recorders blinked as Tibble stepped to the podium. Tall, lean, imposing, he stood in silence until the room quieted.

  “Today, after an exhaustive and intense investigation, the New York City Police and Security Department, with cooperation from the HSO, arrested and charged the individual allegedly responsible for the deaths that occurred at On the Rocks and Café West. Faced with the preponderance of evidence gathered by the investigative team headed by Lieutenant Dallas, in consultation with Agent Teasdale of HSO, Lewis Callaway has confessed to the planning, the intent, and the execution of these crimes.”

  Eve let it roll over her—Tibble’s statement, Whitney’s, then the questions that flew like crazed crows. She wanted home, she realized, intensely. The quiet of it, the comfort, the indulgence of familiarity.

  She answered questions when called on, and wondered—as she always did—why so many of them asked the same damn thing with slightly altered phrasing.

  “Lieutenant, Lieutenant Dallas! Kobe Garnet with New York News. You interrogated Callaway.”

  “I interviewed the suspect, along with Detective Peabody, Agent Teasdale, and Doctor Mira.”

  “Did he tell you why? Why he did it?”

  “Yes. I’m not authorized to relate the details of the interview or the suspect’s confession that may deter from the prosecution’s case, should this matter go to trial.”

  “People want to know why.”

  “Callaway’s motives will be disclosed at the prosecutor’s discretion. The why matters. It matters not only to this department in order to secure arrest and confession, to the prosecutor to secure a verdict, but to the survivors of the attacks, and the families of those who didn’t survive. They should know it matters to us. More, and for now, they should know Lewis Callaway is behind bars. The NYPSD and the prosecuting attorney will do everything within their power to see he stays behind bars.”

  She fielded more, as did the others, until she felt like a bone, picked clean to the marrow.

  When her ’link vibrated in her pocket, she started to pull it out. Maybe she could use it as an excuse to step away, get out. But as she slid her hand into her pocket, Kyung stepped up to end the media torture.

  Some reporters scrambled out, others continued—ever hopeful—to lob questions. Relieved, Eve walked out behind Whitney.

  “Well done,” he told her. “Go home, get some rest.”

  “More than happy to, sir.”

  She turned away, reached for her still vibrating ’link, noted Peabody doing the same.

  Something in her guts churned.

  Even as she pulled out her ’link, McNab—his own in his hand—burst in. “Lieutenant, we need you in EDD, now.”

  Whitney laid a hand on her shoulder to hold her in place. “What is it, Detective?”

  “Sir. We cracked the encryption. Callendar took the journal entries, and she’s got entries detailing Callaway’s meetings with his grandmother. Gina MacMillon. She’s still alive.”

  “Peabody, get me everything we’ve got on Gina MacMillon. Teasdale, get me more. When and where did they meet?” Eve demanded.

  “I didn’t get all the details. As soon as Callendar hit, she alerted Feeney. We tried to tag you, hoping we’d catch you before any release.”

  “Too late. His name’s out. Commander, I’ve got to get on this.”

  “Go. I’ll be there myself as soon as I can.”

  “I’ve got her basic data,” Peabody said on the run. “She was reported killed in the attack where her daughter—now Audrey Hubbard—was abducted. Her remains were cremated, per her wishes, and as was more usual in those circumstances.”

  “Cause of death,” Eve snapped as she shoved onto an elevator.

  “Who ID’d the body?”

  “It’s going to take longer to—”

  “Gunshot to the face,” Teasdale stated, reading her PPC. “Both William and Gina MacMillon were identified by a neighbor, an Anna Blicks, who died of natural causes in 2048.”

  “Face blown away. Your neighbor IDs by body type, hair, clothes, jewelry, and because you’re in the house, because who the fuck else would you be? Goddamn it. She started him up. That was the trigger. Not finding out about the grandfather, not initially. But the grandmother.”

  “Why would she fake her own death?” Peabody demanded.

  “Let me think. Let me think. Put extra guards on Callaway. Now!”

  “Menzini might have arranged it,” Teasdale considered. “He wanted her and the child back, located her, killed someone in her place so no one would look for her.”

  “No. No. Women didn’t matter that much. The kid—she’s his blood, and part of the new world order, part of the new beginning. But not the mother. She did it. She went home for something, under Menzini’s orders, had to conv
ince her husband she was contrite—or she’d been brainwashed, abused. She’s terrified, and there’s this baby. He opens the door.”

  “For all those months?” Teasdale began.

  “Menzini needed someone on the outside, someone who could funnel him money, supplies, information. How the hell do I know, I wasn’t there. Isn’t that how it works—moles, sleepers, double fucking agents?”

  She bulled off the elevator, tore toward EDD.

  “In the lab, Dallas.” Fast on his feet, McNab passed her, led the way.

  She spotted Feeney through the glass, pacing, his hair in wild silver and gray wires, and Callendar, her face grim in contrast to the sassy butt wiggle she performed in front of a swipe screen.

  She didn’t see Roarke until she’d pushed through the doors behind McNab. He huddled at a comp station, working manually and by voice. The muttered Irish curses she caught meant he battled the work.

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.” Callendar broke off the work and wiggle. “If I’d been faster—”

  “Forget that. Run it through.”

  “Once we broke the code, I took the journal entries. I was taking my time because … we had him. The first bit was just long, rambling bullshit about how he was special, different, important. It was just full of the E and the Go, and how now he knew why he’d always known it. Then he started talking about the grandmother. She set up a meeting, posing as a client, St. Regis Hotel bar. You should read it for yourself, Dallas.”

  She ordered the segment on screen.

  She was beautiful for a woman of her age. A strong face with piercing blue eyes. Her jewelry was understated, but good. I could see she was a woman of means and taste. She ordered a martini, and it suited her. I admit I found her fascinating even before I knew the truth. She kept her voice, strong like her face, low and intimate. I had to lean toward her to hear.

  She asked me what I knew about my heritage. It seemed a strange question, but clients often ask strange questions, and she was picking up the tab. I told her of my grandfather—the war hero bit always impresses. How he and my grandmother had left England for America with my mother to start a new life.